The New World

Chapter Thirty

I had been laying here for hours. Staring at the ceiling, the walls, objects. The lids of my eyes slide open and close, slowly. My breaths heavy, even. My mind was blank. My limbs were numb. I knew I was alive. The aching of my heart reminded me.

I hoped that if I waited here long enough, they would let me go back. I don't know why I thought it would work. It's a stupid idea. I knew I had to get up soon. I needed to use the restroom and my stomach was tempting to growl at me.

I was waiting. Nothing in particular. I was just waiting for something to happen. Anything. Bad or good.

Finally, my bladder couldn't wait any longer. I sorely sat up, wincing. My muscles did not ache, only stiff. It was refreshing when my lungs filled then decompressed. I swung my legs to the side of the bed and slid off. My feet plopped on the rug and I stood, idle.

A soft knock rapped on my door and clicked open. I groggily looked at my trespasser with hooded eyes. It was the maid. Her skin porcelain like a doll, rosy cheeks, pink lips, doe eyes. She smiled, too happy, at me. She held a folded dress in her hands.

"Oh, Miss Toft!" she exclaimed. I winced at my name.

"I'm glad you're up!" she continued. She took a step into my room.

My back to her, my head was turned to see her, "Get out," I mumbled.

"But, Miss--"

"I said, 'get out'," I growled louder. She must not have heard me...

"Miss Toft, you father--"

I grabbed the lamp at my bed side and chucked it at her, "I said, 'Get out!!'"

It hit the wall, missing her head by only a few inches. She screamed, dropping the dress and ran out. My breathing was shallow. I had no time for this. I shuffled my way toward the dress. It was covered in glass from the lamp. I sighed and went to pick another one.

Once I relieved myself, I slipped on one that wasn't too pretty, ratted and old, I marched downstairs to the kitchen. I didn't bother with my face or hair. What for?

Mother sat at the small table there, sipping her tea. She looked up and gawked at my uneasy appearance. I lowered my gaze to her with the most artless contempt. Her painted eyes stared with horror.She saw my hateful expression but chose to ignore it. My image was more important.

"Azaria, you are home now. You do not need to dress like those savages anymore," she said lightly. She placed her tea back on decorated saucer. When I didn't respond and just continued to glare, she narrowed her eyes.

"Azaria, what did you do to you're hair?" she said suddenly. It sounded as if she was to have a heart attack.

I ran my tongue over my teeth, "I didn't do anything to my hair. They cut it off."

I plopped myself down in the chair across from Mother, not breaking eye contact. Her nostrils flared. She was getting angry. But, it wasn't at the natives, no. She was mad at me. Why? I do not know exactly, but I can see it in her eyes. The fire rising inside them. Like my hair being cut was my fault.

"Savages, I say," she removed her eyes from mine.

I reached for a pastry that sat in the centre of the round table. I caught glimpse of her furrowed eyebrows and her eyes widen. She snatched my wrist and her gaze fixated on my palm.I tried to tug it back, but her grip was too strong, her nails piercing my skin.

A cry escaped her mouth, "My child bares Satan's mark!"

I finally reclaimed my arm, rubbing the tender skin. Mother covered her mouth, in shock. I looked at my palm. The pentagram was a pink scar, healing still. But I knew that it would never truly go away. I quickly grabbed the pastry and began to eat it.